


Consumed

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is growing inside Kirk, and he honestly wishes he could share it: this joy, this knowledge that he isn't alone anymore.  He knows better, though.  Neither Spock nor McCoy would understand.  They'd try to take it away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumed

**Author's Note:**

> Contains disturbing stuff. For more detailed warnings (with spoilers) click [here](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/1210528.html). (The link will take you to a post on Livejournal.com.)
> 
> The song "Jimmy mo mhíle stór" is, as far as I can determine, of unknown authorship. (I recommend the Frances Black version.)
> 
> Many thanks to Igrockspock and Boosette for beta reading this little horror story of mine.

It's so wonderful, he wants to share it: this feeling, this knowledge that he isn't alone anymore. Even on this ship, which is home to more than eight hundred officers and crew, he was always alone because he was the captain. He had to stand apart from everyone else; it enabled him to make tough decisions that often involved sending his people into danger. But now… Something like joy ripples inside him and he wishes he could share it.

He knows better. If he told anyone, even Spock or Bones, they'd try to take it away from him. Everything he loves gets taken away from him eventually, and this … they can't have this. This is _his_.

It must have happened on Soron IV, the last planet they explored. He doesn't know how it happened. Biologically, it should not have. He still has the reproductive system of a male _homo sapiens_, and he certainly didn't mate with anyone or anything on the planet. They beamed down to a swamp that stretched for hundreds of kilometers; the sentient inhabitants disappeared millennia ago, when catastrophic changes to the planet's atmosphere, brought on by a bombardment of meteorites, caused most animal and plant-life to wither and die. All that remained were half-submerged ruins, infested with arthropod- and gastropod-like creatures, and thick-bodied insects buzzing through the sticky air.

He doesn't care how it happened. And he's just enough of a scientist for that to bother him vaguely, but…

It doesn't matter.

All that matters is that it _happened_. He has this thing growing inside him, and it's good. His hand slips below the blanket, under his t-shirt and pajama pants, and strokes the warm, smooth skin of his belly. There's no swell yet, but he _knows_.

Warmth suffuses him. He could lie in bed all day, stroking his body, waiting for an answering nudge from the thing growing inside him. He would, if he thought he could get away with it. But he's the captain and he has other duties. Obligations. His absence would arouse suspicion.

No one can know about this. It's his secret, his charge. He has to protect it, no matter the cost.

*

For the first couple of days, it's easy enough to pretend nothing has changed. He goes about his business, his secret tucked safely away.

On the third day since leaving Soron IV, however, things begin to slip. He has trouble concentrating. On the bridge, he slouches in the captain's chair, his gaze drawn to the field of stars on the view screen. The chatter around him seems distant. Yeomen hand him PADDs, and he signs off on things after taking only the most cursory of glances.

He pretends to be deep in thought. It works, though he doesn't miss the asperity in Uhura's tone when she has to repeat herself.

In meetings, his legs move restlessly under the table, and he has to struggle to keep his mind from wandering to the thing growing inside him. He has to protect it. They would take it away from him if they knew, kill it, dissect it. There's nothing between it and their laser scalpels but his flesh and a few pitifully thin layers of synthetic cotton.

It's not enough.

He flinches when Spock says, "Captain, are you not well?"

"I'm fine," he assures them.

"Jim," McCoy begins.

"I'm fine," he insists. "Just tired, that's all." Summoning some of the joy he truly wishes he could share with these men, and forcing it into his smile, he adds, "I promise."

Fortunately, there isn't much between Soron IV and their next destination … whatever that is. He'll have the computer remind him well before they arrive. Spock seems to be spending most of his on-duty hours in the laboratory with his team of science officers, analyzing the data they've collected over the past several months. Bones is often in the lab as well, with his own team of researchers. And when he isn't there, he's in Sickbay, catching up on crew physicals.

Jim's medical records are up to date. Another stroke of luck.

 

*

He's actually been sleeping fairly deeply these past couple of nights, though he doesn't feel especially refreshed when he awakens. He's tired all the time, and having to pretend he isn't just makes it worse. It's such a relief to pull off his clothes and fall into bed after the end of beta shift. He tugs the blanket to his chin (he's always cold, too) and curls up, one hand absently stroking his belly.

He doesn't dream. Or maybe he does, and he just forgets everything.

*

He's almost constantly hungry. He stuffs himself at breakfast, lunch, and supper, but less than an hour later he's craving more. It's hardest when he has to be on the bridge: his stomach twists painfully, and rumbles. He's sure everyone can hear it, but thankfully no one says anything. By the time his shift is over, his stomach feels like a black hole, cold and empty, expanding and consuming him bit by bit. He all but runs to his quarters, where he keeps a stash of protein nibs, carefully hidden behind a panel in the bulkhead.

*

He stops playing chess with Spock.

"I just don't have time," he insists. "I have a lot on my mind. I can't concentrate on the game. Anyway, I know you're busy with your data."

"Captain," his first officer says in his normal, placid tone, "if there is something with which I might assist—"

"No, no," says Jim, brushing his offer aside with a wave of his hand. "It's just … Starfleet Command. On my back about a couple of reports we filed months ago. They want me to elaborate on a number of points, so I've been going back over the various logs. And there are things going on with my family…"

"Ah." Spock nods. He knows not to pry when Jim brings up his family. Jim knows that he knows. "Nevertheless, my offer stands. Should you—"

"Yeah, thanks, Spock."

*

He stops meeting Bones for coffee on the observation deck.

"Honestly, I'm swamped," he says over the comm.

McCoy scowls. "Goddamn bureaucrats work you too hard. You're out here risking your life, and they're riding your ass about _paperwork_?"

"Yeah, well…" Jim says evasively, and shrugs.

McCoy's eyes narrow. "Are you sleeping all right, kid? You look tired."

"I _am_ tired. I'm fine, though."

"You seem pale. When was the last time you ate?"

"Half an hour ago." (This, at least, is true.) "Bones, I'm fine. Hey, how are the physicals going?"

"Three hundred seventy-two to go," Bones grumbles. "Thank God I have a competent nursing staff, or we'd never get through…"

"I need to get back to work," says Jim. "I'll let you know when I'm done. We'll catch up then."

*

He cancels his sparring matches with Sulu.

He tells Chekov he doesn't have time to go over navigational charts.

He stops badgering Uhura while she's doing her daily crossword puzzle over breakfast.

He doesn't swing by Engineering to say hello to Scotty.

*

He's starting to show, finally. (It's only been a week, but it feels like months.) He stands naked in front of his bathroom mirror, and strokes the gentle swell of his belly. It's beautiful, he thinks. Never mind the fact that he's losing fat and muscle mass. Never mind the fact that he's pale and there are dark circles under his eyes. The thing inside him is growing, and that's all that matters.

*

In his head, it's always _the thing inside him._ It never occurs to him that this thing might have a shape, a gender.

It never occurs to him that he might give it a name.

It's _his_. That's all it needs to be.

*

On the bridge, he sits as still as possible, his arms wrapped around his middle. It works until Spock bends close to his ear and says in a low tone meant only for him, "Captain, you appear to be experiencing abdominal discomfort. I suggest you go to Sickbay and see Doctor McCoy."

"I'm fine. Really."

"Captain, I insist."

Jim sighs and pretends to give it reluctant consideration because that is what Spock no doubt expects. "Fine," he says at length, and with a convincing grimace. "You're right. I'll head down there. Actually, I think I'll take off for the rest of the shift. Think you can handle it?"

"I am fully capable," says Spock without a trace of wryness. "Do feel better."

Jim nods and slides out of the captain's chair. He doesn't go directly to Sickbay, though. He stops in his quarters and waits until the shift has ended. By the time he gets down there, it's fairly quiet, Bones is long gone, and the only person he encounters is a nurse he doesn't know particularly well.

"Riley," she supplies, when he stumbles over her name. "Sorcha Riley. Captain, are you all right? You–" She bites her lip.

"What?"

"Well, you look awful, Sir," she blurts. "Em, sorry." She has a rather lilting brogue, which, under different circumstances, he might find charming. She also has short black hair, blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, and a dusting of freckles on her snub little nose. He trawls through his memories, searching for some sliver of her, but his mind is such a mess right now; every other thought is turned toward the thing growing inside him, and he can't really think of anything else.

"I feel all right," he says. "Just tired."

"You look tired. Should you not be in bed?"

"I was just about to. But I thought…"

"Sir?"

"Nothing. I guess I was just hoping I'd run into Bones. I mean Doctor McCoy. There was something…" He gestures vaguely.

"Doctor McCoy went off-duty about half an hour ago."

"Yeah." Shaking his head, he says, "Yeah, I knew that. I just… Never mind. Sorry to interrupt."

Riley frowns, and an incredible loneliness shivers through him. Just for a second or two, but in that brief time, he finds himself wishing that Bones _had_ been there, even though he knew he wouldn't be.

The sensation passes, though he wonders at it. It's so wrong. Because he isn't alone. He'll never be alone again.

"Captain?" Riley's frown deepens, and her fingers twitch like they're about to go for her medical tricorder.

"Never mind," says Jim. "I'll go and see him in his quarters." He knows better than to say, _Forget I was here._ "As you were."

"Yes, Sir."

When he returns to his quarters, he adjusts the duty roster so his schedule and those of his senior staff have only minimal overlap. If anyone questions him, he plans to say, "I barely know the gamma shift crew, and I want to. Besides, it's so quiet then. I'll get more work done. I'll change it again in a few weeks."

 

*

He can't get his pants closed. (They used to joke about that in Riverside. Jimmy T. can't keep his pants on.) His shirt keeps riding up. He hesitates to speak to the quartermaster, because what the hell is he going to say? _I've gained a lot of weight in the past week and a half, and I need some bigger shirts and pants_?

He considers his crew. Off the top of his head, he can think of three heavy-set guys who wear command gold. He could override the locks on their doors and take their uniforms while they're on-shift. That would work … except for the fact that he can't leave his own quarters and wander down the corridors with his belly hanging out.

And he can't exactly ask whoever's on duty in the transporter room to beam him into someone else's quarters.

"I don't know what to do," he mutters. "I don't know what to do." He crouches on the floor, hugging his belly. It feels so warm against the undersides of his arms. Warm with life.

"I'll protect you," he promises. "I just have to think."

His shift starts in twenty minutes. If he isn't there, they'll come looking for him. They'll find him, and they'll take the thing inside him. They'll just cut it right out of him, and he'll be alone. Lost and alone forever.

He can't think.

He can't fucking think.

*

He almost makes it to the shuttle bay. They find him in a Jeffries tube, naked except for a thin cotton robe, a bag of protein nibs clutched to his chest, a phaser in his hand. He fires and manages to stun three of the security officers before they grab him from behind and wrestle him into submission. He bellows about insubordination, insists he's on a secret mission, threatens to throw them all in the brig. When that doesn't work, he pleads with them, thrashing against their iron-tight grip, tears scalding in the corners of his eyes. He can feel their gazes on him, their probing, judging, ignorant-as-fuck gazes. They don't understand. There isn't _one_ of them who understands, who cares—

He feels long, cool fingers on the back of his neck. He stiffens and opens his mouth for a howl of betrayal.

There's pressure at the based of his skull and the juncture of his neck and shoulder – then nothing.

*

He floats through space. It must be space, he thinks: it's so dark and cold. Every part of him is frozen, except for his belly, which is on fire. At first, it's just a prickle of heat, a lick of electricity. But as he floats, helpless, the heat increases and couples with a terrible pressure.

He understands what's happening. They're cutting him open. They're taking it away from him. The pain, by now, is unbearable, but it's nothing compared with the terror of imminent and irrevocable loss.

He screams.

*

Voices from far away:

"He's awake!"

"You're kidding."

"Doctor McCoy, he just—"

"Everyone, stop. _Now._ Cover him up, then step away. Chapel, page Spock. Get him down here immediately." Sounding nearer, "Jim? Kid, can you hear me?"

"Bones?" His voice sounds weak, distorted. There's a mask over his mouth, but that isn't the reason. He can't open his eyes. "Bones, don't. Please. Don't take it."

"I have to. This thing is killing you."

"No." He croaks the word; his throat feels thickly lined, his tongue heavy as lead in his mouth. "S'mine. It needs me."

"It's a parasite, Jim. Of course it needs you. Found a cozy, convenient home for itself. It's embedded itself in your peritoneum. That's the membrane holding your intestines in place. It's attached itself to your small intestine through a hole, and it's leeching nutrients from your gut. It's also leeching hemoglobin from your blood. It's been flooding your system with hormones, keeping you good and drugged while it grows and takes what it wants."

It's a lie. Bones, of all people, is lying to his face. Jim struggles to rise, but his limbs won't obey him; they feel so heavy. Icy fear washes through him.

"Jim," Bones says.

"No."

"Jim, listen to me."

"No. Bones. Please, don't do this. Don't take this away from me. It's all I have. I need it. It needs me. _Please._ It's not ready to come out."

McCoy's hand is firm on his shoulder. "You can't give birth to this thing. You know that, right?"

Jim shakes his head, not even sure what he's denying. He never thought about giving birth. When it's ready, the thing will simply come out.

"You _can't_. Biologically, you're not equipped. And if it gets any bigger…"

"Just a few more days, Bones. A week. _Please._" He's strapped to a bio-bed, naked as a grub. They've already started slicing him open. Now they're just waiting for Spock – why Spock? It doesn't make sense – before they reach inside with their hands and yank it out of him.

"Jim," McCoy says, and his tone is heavy with sorrow, "kiddo, you don't have days."

Spock says, "Doctor, how may I assist?"

"No," Jim whimpers.

"That thing," says McCoy, "is still controlling him. It's interfering with the anesthesia. The sevoflurane, the neuromuscular blockers— He won't stay down. The thing keeps trying to wake him up. Can you—?"

"Yes," says Spock. "At least, I shall make the attempt."

Jim yells, "I said no! Bones, I said _no_. Don't do it. I don't want surgery. _No._" He can feel Spock near him now, taking McCoy's place by his head. They won't listen to him. They're really going to do it. His friends. In a true panic, he shouts with all his remaining strength: "No! No, Bones, no. _Please_, no."

He feels fingertips on his temples, and on the ridges of bone under his eyes. "Jim," says Spock, "our minds must be one now."

"_No!_"

He feels the cold sting of a hypo against his neck. And then—

*

He's floating again. Not through space, this time, but through something clouded and gray. He's aware of movement behind the clouds: faces, hands reaching toward him. Touching him. Entering him.

He wants to scream, but there's a strange disconnect between his mind and his body. The latter won't obey him, even when he orders it.

::Jim::

It's Spock. Reaching into his mind like McCoy is reaching into his body.

::Jim, you must listen to me. It is imperative that you listen, and that you do as I tell you.::

No.

::Jim. The parasite is attempting to retain control of your mind. It has forged a link that is … astonishingly powerful. It is interfering with the drugs intended to help you. Without your assistance, I can only fight it for so long. Perhaps not long enough for Doctor McCoy to remove it from your body.::

Don't fight it. Don't take it away.

::Doctor McCoy was correct. The parasite is draining you very rapidly.::

It needs me.

::Need does not necessarily convey right. This is one of the tenets of the United Federation of Planets. It is something you believe. Deeply. It is something I have long admired about you.::

No.

::Jim, this thing will kill you.::

Let it kill me. I want to die.

For a long moment, there is nothing from Spock. The gray surrounding Jim ripples like a curtain, and he's aware once more of McCoy's hands, of the pressure and the burn.

I want to die, Spock. I'm so tired. I'm so cold. If I lose this, I'll have nothing.

The gray is thinning. He can feel more than just McCoy's hands; he can feel the laser scalpel cutting through tissue, the forceps moving organs aside, holding them in place. He never knew a person could freeze and burn to death simultaneously. He can feel his own blood starting to bubble at the lip of the incision, spilling over it. A sudden loud beeping, then an anxious shout—

"_BP's falling. Doctor, we're—_"

::Jim.:: Once more, Spock's voice is earnest in his mind. ::You are mistaken. You have a great deal. More than you are aware. This ship is yours, and everyone aboard it respects and cares about you. To say that you have nothing is to insult their devotion. You are needed. You are necessary. Moreover, you are the one who taught me that no situation is truly hopeless. I do not believe your assertion that death is preferable to a struggle.::

But it hurts. It hurts so much.

::Then share your pain with me.::

I can't. It's too much. You don't understand.

::Nevertheless, I am willing.::

Why?

A fractional hesitation. Then, ::You are like a brother to me. Your pain is my pain.::

The world is collapsing around him, the gray swirling like smoke through the ruins.

::Your pain is my pain, Jim. Please. I have lost my planet. I have lost my mother. I have no wish to lose the only man I have ever considered a brother.::

A part of him wants to say yes. But he's so tired, so cold.

::Help me, Jim.::

I don't know how.

::Do not fight me.::

I'm not.

::You are. It is instinctive, and this creature is helping you. Resist it.::

I can't. Spock, I can't, I can't, I can't.

::You can. You are exceptionally strong, and you can. Do not despair. I am here. I am with you. Doctor McCoy is with you. We are trying to help you. Listen to my words. Try to believe them. Believe that we care about you, for we do. Believe that we need you. Believe that we will not let you go.::

Jim tries. He tries as hard as he can, with his body and spirit dying, and the grayness thickening around him.

::We care about you, Jim. We need you. We will not let you go.::

The grayness, Jim slowly understands, is coming from Spock, not the creature, and it's a good thing. It's a shield between his mind and body, and he should not fight it, should not try to peer through it. It's soothing, like rain on the roof of his childhood home, or the soft towel his mother wraps him in after stepping from the bath… It's not like the gauze pads Bones is using to try to stanch the bleeding, which won't stop … won't stop … won't …

::Jim!::

*

He dreams that someone is singing to him. She has a lilting voice, one he knows vaguely, but can't place. Nor can he understand the words to her song. Somehow, though, he knows that they're for him, about him, and he lets go of the darkness, allows himself to float upward, toward the singer.

*

He half-expects to see a woman's face when his eyes finally flutter open. But it's just Bones, sitting in a chair beside the bio-bed. Bones. He's supposed to feel something, he knows. Anger. Betrayal. Relief.

He doesn't feel any of those things.

He doesn't feel anything at all.

Seeing that Jim is awake, Bones half-rises, and reaches around for something that turns out to be a thermos of water. Gently raising Jim's head and inserting the straw between his too-dry lips, he says, "Slow sips, kid. That's it—" when Jim complies. "One more. All right, that's enough for now." He sets the thermos aside and resumes his seat, lacing his fingers, ducking his head so the hair spills over his brow, hiding his eyes.

The silence stretches awkwardly.

At length, Jim says, "The men I shot. Are they—?" Despite the water, his throat feels like it's full of gravel.

"They're fine," Bones replies at once, apparently glad to have an easy question to answer.

"They must think I lost my mind."

"They think you were very ill. They know you weren't responsible for your actions. They've been asking about you. Lots of people have. Your crew loves you."

"What about Spock?" Jim asks, ignoring what he can't deal with at the moment. "Where is he?"

"On the bridge," says Bones. "Where he belongs, as Acting Captain."

"Acting Captain?" Jim frowns. "Shouldn't he be resting?"

"Jim." Bones shifts uneasily in his seat. He still isn't looking at him directly. "He did rest. He spent about a day in deep meditation. But that was five days ago. You've been unconscious for five days. There was…" He seems locked in a staring contest with the edge of Jim's bed. "The damage was extensive. That thing did not want to let go. You went into cardiac arrest, and you lost a lot of blood. You ended up needing two transfusions. Then I had to replace a good deal of your small intestine and the surrounding tissue, and…"

He stops himself, though Jim hasn't said a word. It's all just washing over him, very little of it actually penetrating. There's something Bones isn't telling him, he senses. He might as well ask.

"The … thing," he says slowly. "It's—"

"Gone," Bones says fervently. "Dead. Incinerated."

Jim closes his eyes. Of course they destroyed it. He knew they would. He thought he would feel something when Bones told him, but he doesn't, except for an uncomfortable tickle in his chest that he can't ascribe to any particular emotion.

"Spock and I have been talking, and we still can't figure out how it got inside you," Bones continues. "Must've happened on Soron. It obviously started out small. _Very_ small, since it didn't make so much as a blip when you and the rest were transported back to the ship. You could've been stung by one of those goddamn bugs and not noticed. It could've chewed its way in, found its way to a blood vessel. Maybe you had an open cut you weren't aware of, or forgot about. I don't know. And at this point, it almost doesn't matter. You're going to be all right. I'm recommending you see a counselor as soon as you're strong enough. Until then I'm keeping you confined to Sickbay, you're off solid foods, and you're keeping that IV in you. But you're going to be all right. And that is all that matters."

_Should be all that matters._ There's still something Bones isn't saying. It lurks in his pauses, in the sharp breath he takes when Jim opens his eyes again and looks at him. But Bones can never hold anything back for long.

"I'm sorry, kid. I'm so sorry. We missed the signs, and we nearly fucking lost you. If one of my nurses hadn't mentioned… You were being eaten alive right in front of us and we – I…"

_Eaten alive._ The tickle in Jim's chest becomes an itch, becomes a well of tears that's going to overflow any second now. He squeezes his eyes shut again and turns his face away.

"Jim."

"Not now, Bones. I can't. Tell Spock thank you. He was right. So were you, but I can't—"

"Jim."

"_Leave me alone!_" The scream tears through his already raw throat. And then he loses it. The sobs come bubbling up, and he can't hold them back. They wrack his body, and he doesn't try to fight them. He's so empty. He doesn't miss the thing. He's glad it's gone. Spock was right: he didn't want to die. But he remembers how he felt when it was growing inside him, the delight, the warmth, the certainty that he would never be alone again. Now it's gone and there's nothing.

"You'll be a father, Jim," says Bones, sounding very weary and far away, though his hand is on Jim's shoulder. "Someday. If that's what you want. You'll be a good father."

Jim shakes his head. Bones's words are meaningless now. So is the big, warm hand that continues to squeeze his shoulder while he sobs. He hasn't cried like this since he was a small child. It didn't do him any good then, and he knows it won't do him any good now, but he can't stop.

"Let it out," says Bones. "It's gonna be okay. We all love you, and we're going to help you."

He doesn't _want_ help. He doesn't want anything. "Just leave me alone," he chokes out. "That's an order."

He can tell he's hurt Bones by the abruptness with which his hand falls away, but he doesn't fucking care.

"Okay," Bones says. "I'm going to give you a mild sedative, just to help you sleep. Is that okay?"

Jim nods. He feels Bones pushing up the sleeve of his gown, then the cool pressure of a hypo.

"I'll send someone to check on you in a few minutes, and I'll be back later. If you wake up before then, and you need me, you call me. No matter what time it is, no matter how insignificant it seems, you call me, and I'll come running. Okay?"

Jim bites his lips, tasting the salt from his tears, and eventually Bones leaves him. Once he's alone, he opens his mouth and a fresh wave of sobs shudders through him. It's more muted this time, due in part to the sedative, but no less overwhelming.

He goes on sobbing until he can't anymore, not because his grief is any less, but because his body is simply too tired. Exhausted and aching, he lies there, staring blindly at the monitors that line the wall, waiting for the sedative to really kick in.

He doesn't know how much time passes before he starts to shiver. He hears the scrape of the chair being pushed back, followed by rapid footsteps walking away from his bed. He's confused at first, but then he remembers Bones saying he'd send someone to check in on him. Chapel? Whoever she is, she returns with a blanket, which she lays over him, murmuring, "Shh, now. It's all right."

As soon as she speaks, he knows who she is. She's the nurse from before, the one with the lovely brogue and the freckles – Sorcha Riley. He wants to tell her that he remembered her this time, but the moment he turns his head, she's saying, "Shh," again, and stroking his arm with gentle fingertips.

She's the one who was singing to him when he was floating back toward consciousness. He wants to hear her song again, wants to know the words and what they mean. He can't communicate his desire to her, not verbally, but he looks at her, and somehow, she understands.

As she tucks the blanket around his shoulders, she sings:

_Bliain an taca seo d'imigh mo ghrá uaim féin,   
Ní thiocfaidh sé abhaile go dtuga sé cúrsa an tsaoil,   
Nuair a fheicead mo ghile rithfead le fuinneamh na chóir,   
Agus clúdódh le mil é, is é Jimmy mo mhíle stór._

Maybe it's the trauma, or all the drugs he's on. Something, anyway, is interfering with the Universal Translator, because she's singing in Irish and he can tell. He doesn't understand the words – except for Jimmy, of course – but the wistful tone renders them plain enough.

_Bíonn mo mháthair is m'athair go síoraí ag bruíon liom féin,   
Dá rá gur lem' boige do mealladh mé i dtús mo shaoil,   
Mise dá fhulaingt go dubhach is ag sileadh na ndeor   
Le cumann dom chumann, is é Jimmy mo mhíle stór._

She blushes. "Em, sorry. Bit of a love song, isn't it? I didn't mean— I _don't_ mean—"

"S'all right," he whispers.

"My mum used to sing it to me and my brother when we were little. Not sure how badly the Universal Translator is mangling it. _Jimmy my thousand treasures_ is what it means. Jimmy my darling. He sails the wide world over, and her parents give her grief while she waits. You remind me of him, just a little. My brother, I mean."

"He handsome and smart?" It comes out more plaintive than ironic. He must look awful at the moment, and as for his supposed intelligence…

"He was always getting into scrapes," Riley replies with a slight smile. "After our parents died. Just as well he had a nurse for a big sister."

Jim doesn't miss her use of the past tense, and raises his eyebrows.

She looks at her hands. "He was in your class at the Academy, I believe, but a few years younger. He was on the _Farragut._ I was on the _Yorktown_ in the Laurentian System, and there was nothing I could do."

"Oh." He feels a twinge of sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"No, I should be sorry. I'm babbling, and you need sleep."

"S'okay," he murmurs. _This ship is yours,_ Spock said, _and everyone aboard it respects and cares about you. To say that you have nothing is to insult their devotion. You are needed. You are necessary._ "Nurse Riley … thank you."

She looks up. "For what, Captain?"

For telling on him. For the blanket. For the song. For the gentleness of her fingers on his arm. For sitting beside him while he lay unconscious before, and for being with him now.

He's too tired to say all that, so he holds her gaze for a few moments longer, then lets his eyes flutter closed.

"All right, then," she says. "Sleep. But I'll be here if you need me. You won't be alone."

He is not alone.

7/4/10


End file.
